by Holly Rayner
“We have another interview a few floors up,” the man says. “You can see yourself out, I’m sure. We’ll be in touch.”
“Look,” I say, following him to the door. “I know that didn’t go well. I’ve never been good at interviews. If you give me a chance to work, you’ll see how self-motivated I am. I think I came out of the womb as a high achiever.” It’s my first lame attempt at a joke, and I laugh to let him know this.
He doesn’t even chuckle. He pulls the door open and steps out into the hallway. I follow him.
“I’m a hard worker, and I have more than enough experience with marketing,” I say. “I promise.”
He avoids my gaze and instead looks down at the file folder in his hand. “Yes, that’s clear. You do have an impressive résumé. We’ll be in touch, Karla.”
I watch him hurry down the hall and catch up with the female recruiter.
They fall into step together, bend their heads together, and begin conversing. Their voices are just quiet enough that I can’t hear, but I feel sure that they’re discussing my horrible interview.
My suspicions are confirmed when the woman tilts her head back, laughs, and then turns around to look at me. She catches sight of me watching, quickly looks away, and then moves even faster down the hallway, as if eager to get away from me.
I bombed that interview. There is no way I’m going to get the job.
What now?
How am I going to pay my bills?
I dejectedly head in the opposite direction from the two, take an elevator to the first floor, and make my way back out onto the sidewalk.
The winds have picked up considerably, and the sunshine is nowhere to be found. Instead, the claustrophobic city block is shrouded in a ceiling of dark, ominous-looking clouds that have an odd tint of green. A metal street sign at the corner of the block has been blown partially loose by the high wind, and it’s clattering against its metal pole like a drummer beating a warning rhythm.
I should have brought an umbrella.
Maybe I can get home before these clouds open up and soak me to the bone.
I hurry in the direction of the parking garage that holds my little Honda, but before I make it even a half a block, I feel the first wet splatter of a raindrop on the top of my head. I pull my scarf up so it covers my head, but it’s immediately blown off by another blast of wind.
I just want to be home. I want this day to end. That interview was downright embarrassing. I know why, too. I’m ashamed of the number of jobs I’ve had over the past almost-decade since I graduated from college. It looks bad on a résumé that I haven’t stayed with a company for long.
If they could only see the business that I’m building, they would understand. I’m not afraid of working long hours, and I’m smart, too. In my next interview, I have to show them that. I have to get them to—
The sound of a siren blaring stops my fretting short.
It’s not just any siren, either. It’s a tornado warning.
Great. Am I ever going to get home to my apartment?
I look around and spot a nearby hotel. It’s the largest building around, and people are streaming toward it. I join the crowd and find myself swept down a hallway and a flight of stairs, and into a large room filled with round tables and folding chairs. It’s a meeting room of sorts, and it quickly fills with people seeking shelter.
I look around and spot a table that’s next to a wall with an outlet. Hopefully the hotel has a generator, and if we’re stuck in here for a few hours while the storm blows over, I can use my phone to check on my Karla’s Kitchen website and catch up on emails.
I settle into the seat, plug in my phone, and then start reading emails as the seats around me fill.
I’m halfway through typing an email to a guy who runs the warehouse I use to store my sauces when the sound of a little kid crying pulls my attention away from my phone. I look up and see an eleven-year-old boy in the chair next to me. His hair is wet with rainwater, and he’s sitting sideways in the chair so that he doesn’t have to take off his backpack. He’s looking down at his phone as tears roll down his cheeks.
“You okay?” I say.
He looks at me, wipes his eyes, sniffles, and says, “I can’t get service. What’s wrong with this place?”
“Unfortunately, we’re in a basement,” I say. “The hotel has Wi-Fi, but we can’t make calls out.”
“I have to call my dad,” he says. “I’m supposed to meet him at his office. He’s going to be worried about me.”
“He knows about the warning,” I say. “He’s probably in the basement of his office building, waiting out the storm, too. We’ll just be in here for a few hours, and then you can go back outside and call him.”
“I need to call him now!” he says, sounding panicked.
I feel bad for the little guy. I don’t have kids—my kitchen herb garden is about the only thing I nurture on a daily basis—but I guess my mothering instincts kick in because I reach out and swipe my thumb across his cheek. I can’t stand the sight of his tears. I want to make him feel better.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” I say. “This is the right place for you to be. We’re safe down here. The storm is going to pass soon—I promise. Okay?”
My gesture and words actually seem to help. He finally stops trying to dial his dad and puts his phone down.
He sniffles again, but his tears stop.
I keep talking before he can get worked up again. “I’ve been through so many tornado warnings that I can’t even keep track anymore,” I say. “I remember how scared I used to get as a kid. You know what helps?”
He looks at me. “What?”
“Distraction,” I say. “You just have to distract yourself. That’s why I’m checking emails. It keeps my mind busy so I can’t worry about what’s going on outside.”
“I don’t have emails to check,” the kid says.
Shoot, of course. He’s just a kid. I glance at his backpack. “Okay, you might not have work emails like me, but I’m guessing you have homework you could do.”
A shadow crosses his face. “I hate homework.”
“Oh, come on.” I give him a smile. “Hates a pretty strong word. It can’t be that bad. What is it—a book report or something?”
“Math,” he says with a groan. “Fractions. I hate fractions. Mr. Davis says that I’m going to have to do them for my whole life, but I don’t believe him.” He takes off his backpack and settles into his chair. “If I have to use fractions my whole life, I’m going to die.”
“I think your teacher is right,” I say.
The boy groans.
I laugh. “Seriously, it’s not so bad. I use fractions every day and look at me—I’m not dead. I’m doing just fine.”
He eyes me suspiciously. “You’re not dead,” he says. “You don’t even look like a zombie.”
I laugh harder. “When did zombies enter the conversation?”
He grins at me. “Dead people can come back from the grave as zombies. You didn’t know that? I have a book about a zombie apocalypse and it says all the things you can do to survive. Want me to tell you some of them?”
“I think you’ll be better prepared for survival in the real world if you tackle that math homework,” I tell him. “Why don’t you take it out? I’ll help you.”
“The first thing you have to do if you want to survive a zombie apocalypse is you have to have a zombie-proof car.”
“Homework,” I say, pointing to his backpack.
He groans again. “You sound just like Mr. Davis.”
For the next two hours, I help the kid, whose name is Colt, with his math homework. It’s easy to explain fractions with cooking analogies, and I find out that Colt and I like quite a few of the same dishes, including blueberry waffles, ice cream sundaes, and spaghetti with meatballs.
When the hotel concierge announces that the tornado warning is over, I’m amazed at how fast the time went. Colt and I pack up and head upstairs with everyo
ne else. I wait with him while he calls his dad and arranges to be picked up. I’ve grown a bit attached to the kid, and I want to make sure he’s safe with his father before I continue home.
Within ten minutes, a black SUV pulls up to the curb near where I’m waiting with Colt. Colt leaps off of the bench and runs toward the car, just as a figure steps out of the driver’s seat. I see a Stetson cowboy hat, and my heartbeat quickens. Then Garrett emerges from behind the car, and a blush heats my cheeks. Those butterflies I experienced earlier return to my gut full force.
Garrett greets his son, and then he smiles at me. “Well hello again,” he says. “We met earlier, didn’t we?”
I nod. “At Romano’s Kitchen,” I say. “Karla.”
He approaches and holds out his hand. “That’s right. Karla. The woman with discerning taste.”
“Karla taught me how to do fractions!” Colt says excitedly. “I think for once I’m going to pass my math quiz. Mr. Davis is going to think I’m cheating or something!”
“Greens don’t cheat,” Garrett says to his son, before looking back at me. “Never have. Never will.” He places a hand on his boy’s head, and then gives me an appreciative once over, just like he did in the restaurant. “Karla, do you have dinner plans?” he asks when his gaze returns to my eyes. “I’d like to thank you for taking care of Colt, here.”
“I, um—” I bite my lip. I want to get home. I have work to catch up on tonight. I glance down the block, toward the parking garage I was so intent on getting to just hours earlier.
Why am I in such a rush to get back to my empty apartment?
I look back at Garrett. He’s so freaking handsome. He’s looking at me like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. It’s been ages since a guy asked me out. It’s been even longer than that since I’ve said yes.
I should just go home. Those spreadsheets aren’t going to populate themselves. Plus, seeing as I’m pretty sure I bombed my interview, I have to get busy finding more employment opportunities.
Though my mind supplies rational reasons to say no to Garrett, I feel my heart rebel. I want to say yes.
I just survived a grueling, embarrassing interview, and I deserve to treat myself to something nice, to help me get over it. It’s like I told Colt just a few hours ago: sometimes the best way to feel better is through distraction.
I meet Garrett’s eye. “That sounds nice,” I say.
I follow him to the car. He opens the door to the front passenger seat, and I get in to the tune of Colt explaining from the back seat how he could alter the car to make it more zombie-proof. Garrett gets in and pulls away from the curb. “We’ll just drop Colt off at home and then I’ll take you to the Trombley Steakhouse.”
“I hear it’s impossible to get a table there,” I say before I remember who I’m speaking to.
He emits a soft chuckle. “I’m sure they’ll find something for us,” he says.
I sit back and try to relax. I’m going to do my best to enjoy this evening. I’ve been working so hard lately. I really do deserve a fun distraction, before hitting the classified ads again, looking for another job.
I can’t imagine a better distraction than dinner with Garrett Green.
Chapter 3
Garrett
“Does it ever get old?” Karla asks as we follow a hostess towards the VIP section of Trombley Steakhouse.
I chuckle. “Does what get old?” I ask.
“Being a VIP,” she says. “A very important person… all the time. I have tried to get a table here so many times and they’re always full. And here you are, waltzing in and getting seated within twenty minutes.” She looks over her shoulder at me and smiles. Her cheeks are a bit flushed—maybe due to the glass of wine we just had at the bar.
She turns quickly away again as the hostess leads us into a quiet back room, with windows that look out over the river below.
Good Lord, she’s attractive. Her dark hair swings gently across her shoulders as she walks, keeping perfect time with the rhythm of her hips. She was so quiet in the car ride over here. It was strangely intimate, sitting in the car with her and Colt together. My son seemed to be quite taken by her.
Honestly, I can’t blame him. I’m quite taken by her, too.
We’ve only engaged in small talk, up until now, but I can see that she’s beginning to loosen up. I like that.
“I suppose it does get old, in a way,” I say. “I start to take it for granted. But when I can extend the benefits of my status to others, it helps me appreciate them again. It’s like seeing my world with fresh eyes.”
“Mr. Green, will this do?” the hostess asks as she motions to a little table next to the window.
“This will be fine,” I say.
The hostess pulls out our chairs, lights the candle in the middle of the table, and then disappears to fetch waters, along with the bottle of wine we started earlier.
“Well, thank you,” Karla says as she sits and looks out at the twinkling street lights that line the river. “It’s a nice distraction for me, to step into your world like this. I’m glad I can help you appreciate it again.”
“It is enjoyable… appreciating beauty,” I say, giving her a meaningful look.
She avoids my gaze—instead looking down at the tablecloth, which she smooths under her fingertips. She’s just the right mix of humble and confident. That’s something that I first picked up on when I met her earlier today. She’s not full of herself, like so many women I’ve met over the years. Though she doesn’t have an inflated ego, she does know what she’s worth. She strikes me as a person who’s driven to get what she wants, and I like that about her.
When she finally looks up at me, through her thick lashes, I am filled with the thrill of looking into her eyes. There is something about her look that drills right through me—to the core. It’s startling and enjoyable, all at once.
“I guess that’s how it goes,” she says thoughtfully. “I mean you—adapting to your status. It just becomes normal. There’s always another thing to acquire and achieve. There’s always a carrot on the end of the stick, somewhere out there in front of us.”
“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” I say.
She sighs. “Oh, I’m a carrot chaser, all right. Round and round and round the racetrack I go… always trying to catch the prize.” She twirls her index finger in a loop before her, indicating laps around a racetrack.
I chuckle. “And what’s the prize? What are you searching for, Karla?”
“What’s anyone searching for?” she says, still looking directly at me. “Happiness. Freedom, I guess. I have a case of the ‘one day when’ syndrome.”
“Sounds like a serious condition,” I say.
“Oh, it’s the worst,” she says. “Chronic. Very hard to treat. One day, when my business is successful, I’ll have free time again. One day, when I make this amount of money, I’ll be happy. One day, when my life is more organized, I’ll have friends and a partner and a family, and…” she trails off and looks out the window. “And then I’ll start to live my life. One day, when…”
“So… there’s no Mr. Moretti, I take it?” I ask.
“Oh, no.” She laughs. “Far from it.”
“No boyfriend?” I say. I sense, from the way she’s been looking at me all evening, that she doesn’t have one, but I want to make sure.
“Nope. No boyfriend,” she says. “There is a guy at the tech desk, for the website provider that I use, who is very chatty. I’ve called the help desk about a hundred times over the last few weeks, and he answers half the time. I’m starting to suspect that he actively looks for my calls, so we can talk. He keeps telling me about his cat, Chairman Meow… and the tricks Chairman Meow can do. I guess he’s the closest thing I have to a boyfriend right now.”
She laughs and looks into my eyes in that penetrating way again. “What about you?” she says. “Please tell me you have a better social life than I do.”
Before I can answe
r, the server appears with ice water, a basket of steaming bread, and two more glasses of wine. I place an order for both Karla and me, including arugula salad, filet mignon, and the mashed potatoes which I have a feeling Karla and her discerning palate will enjoy.
For the next few hours, the candle between us gets shorter and shorter as we drink, dine, and converse. She’s easy to talk to—witty, charming, and funny. Our conversation bubbles along surface topics, like the ripeness of the tomatoes on our salads, and then takes surprisingly deep dives into topics like the plane crash that took my wife’s life, and what it’s been like to raise Colt on my own. No matter what we’re discussing, the conversation flows easily.
When dinner is over, I take care of the check and then guide Karla back out into the fresh night air.
As we stand on the sidewalk, I contemplate calling my car service and arranging rides for both Karla and me to our respective homes. That would mean saying goodnight to the woman beside me, and I don’t want to do that. Not yet.
Country music fills the air, leaking out of the half-open door and through the glass-paned windows of a bar across the street. A sandwich-board sign propped near the entrance announces in flashy writing that it’s “Line Dancing Night!”
I motion to the sign, and then look down at Karla, who is standing so near I can feel the heat of her body. “What do you think?” I say. “Another drink? A little dancing…?”
She surprises me by slipping her arm around my waist. Her arm fits perfectly, just beneath my jacket, above the waist of my jeans. It’s the first physical contact we’ve had all night, and it takes my breath away.
God, I’m so glad I didn’t call the car service. I need this contact. I need to be close to her… closer to her, even. I suddenly feel as though I’ve been trudging across a desert, for months—years, even—and Karla is a fresh spring, waiting to be consumed. Only she can quench my thirst.
